


silly mistakes

by TheBrokaryotes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Also Some Humor, Angst and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, How Do I Tag, M/M, Oikawa is confused, Screaming, indian iwaizumi, it doesnt work, iwa-chan is not amused, just mild angst though, matsu and kindaichi try and help, oikawa calls out the wrong name during sex, oikawa isn't gay no he's not, oopsie, tamil iwa, yay represent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrokaryotes/pseuds/TheBrokaryotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Oikawa makes a mistake, but hey, what else is new?</p>
            </blockquote>





	silly mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> h e y y e a h s o
> 
> so i literally wrote this in less than a day and i can't believe it honestly it was a feat  
> also i refuse to let the headcanon that Iwaizumi is part indian die because it will never die

“Get the _fuck out of here,_ Oikawa-san!”

Oikawa’s clothes are only half-put on as his latest conquest boots him out of her apartment, slamming the door behind him. He turns towards it, mouth open with nothing to say. Words fall out anyway, helping him dig his grave faster.

“Nami-chan, come on, I said I was sorry!” he insists. There’s no response. He gestures apologetically towards the wood of the door, finally letting out a sigh when he realizes that he’s got nothing going for him. Buttoning up his shirt, he walks away, tapping the elevator button at the middle of the hall with his elbow while he rearranges his tie. The events of the evening repeat in his head, each detail magnified to a painful extent.

_“My parents aren’t home,” she had whispered sultrily, gazing at him from under her eyelashes. She had both her hands wrapped carefully around her mug, lips pink and perfect as they touched the hot ceramic for a sip._

_Oikawa had reached for his own mug, holding it carefully in his hand. He felt nothing for her, nothing different except for the usual rush of being offered sex. He smiled coyly. “Is that so?” He takes a drink._

He catches a whiff of her perfume on his tie as he wraps it round his neck. The fabric was soft like her fingers, her breasts, her body. She was rather beautiful, even if she wasn’t his type.

_“O-Oikawa-san… hah…”_

_The body underneath him shifts, soft and pliable, gentle like the tide. Oikawa has one hand on her hip, the other curled beneath her lower back to support her. He can feel the dip of her spine, the curve of her butt, her perfect skin on his calloused hands. He breathes out a low groan into her collar, accompanied with a light kiss to her clavicle. She shivers._

He remembers his huge-ass blunder. A sharp pain stabs at his heart, both in sympathy and self-pity for not getting to finish what they’d started. Surprisingly, that had never happened before; additionally, that was the fastest he’d ever been thrown out of a house. _Look at me,_ he mused, _breaking records left and right._

_“Oikawa-san…!” His mind went a little fuzzy. What’s her name again…? Her name… Na-something. Na...ka…_

_Her breath went ragged. Ka… Ika…_

_“Oika-waaah!” she cried. Despite himself, he was going to lose it. He bit his lip, but he couldn’t hold back._

Oikawa sticks his tongue out at the mirrored panels of the elevator wall. _Stupid, stupid,_ he chides himself, fists clenching involuntarily. _You’re an idiot. How could you do that to her? She was nice, she gave you tea and sex, and you called her—_

Oikawa’s blood runs cold.

_“I-Iwa-chan!”_

_Time goes still. She is motionless underneath Oikawa’s body, bewildered._

_When what he’s done clicks with him, Oikawa decides that maybe it’s time to die. **The nearest window is about three meters from here,** he ponders, **but only a few stories up. I wouldn’t die from throwing myself out of it, I’d just get injured and then have the team to deal with. What else… there’s enough makeup in here to choke a rhino, maybe I can shove some of her eyeliner down my throat—**_

_“W-what did you say?”_

_Fuck._

_What did he say? He remembers, clear as a bell, but what the **hell** did he say?_

_“I, um,” he stutters eloquently. “I-I said your name! I-Isa-chan. Isamu, right?”_

_She starts tearing up. Oh god._

_“M-my name is N-Namika, you jerk!”_

The air in the elevator is too hot. Oikawa’s collar is too tight. _Iwa-chan._ He’d said Iwaizumi’s name.

No, that’s. That’s not right. There’s no way he would do that. He and Iwaizumi were friends! And besides, he wasn’t… no, he _isn’t_ gay, or bi, or anything like that. He flirts with anything that moves, but he isn’t… he wouldn’t… not with Iwaizumi, not with any boy.

Oikawa shakes his head slightly, trying to rid himself of the strange feeling that had settled onto his psyche. He wasn’t gay, he didn’t have a crush on Iwaizumi, and that was that. What had happened with What’s-Her-Face-chan didn’t matter, it was a mistake, and nothing more.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Oikawa feels himself walking, on autopilot, out of the apartment building. He readjusts the bag on his shoulder.

 _A mistake,_ he repeats to himself, _and nothing more._

\--

“Wait, are you _serious?_ ”

“Shut _up._ ”

“What are you two talking about?”

Oikawa drops his head into his hands, sighing violently. He can still feel Matsukawa’s eyes boring holes into his skull, his kouhai’s blazing curiosity making him incredibly self-conscious. Normally no one would _dare_ to press Oikawa towards any point of discomfort except for Iwaizumi (obviously) but Matsukawa clearly did not care right now.

The newest voice came from Kindaichi, who shut the door behind him as he entered the locker room. Oikawa wants to die all over again. He didn’t need anyone on the team knowing about this, and he _definitely_ did not need Kindaichi knowing either.

He didn’t have to look to know that Matsukawa had turned to the newcomer, ready to spill all that the two third-years had just exchanged to one another.

“Oikawa-kun called out the wrong name while he was with a girl yesterday,” Matsukawa states simply. Oikawa groans loudly.

The spiky-haired blocker makes a flustered noise. When the rest of the team would gather ‘round the proverbial campfire and exchange sex stories, Kindaichi always stayed pretty quiet, and would balk if anyone tried to ask him about his own personal conquests. Oikawa assumed that maybe he wouldn’t ask too much about this, considering it seemed to make him uncomfortable.

Oikawa assumed incorrectly.

“N-no way, really?” the first-year blurts.

“Yeah, really. She was a second-year.” Matsukawa pauses. Oikawa lifts up his head to see two sets of eyes trained onto him. He feels like a little kid getting made fun of by his friends for having dirt on his face. It was unbefitting of a captain, in his opinion.

Kindaichi sets his bag down, a look of cautious wonder in his eyes. “What did she look like?” he asks, pulling out a change of clothes.

 _Good, a question I can actually answer without vomiting._ It takes Oikawa a moment to pick his pride up off the floor and recall the previous evening. “Well, she had long black hair and pretty eyes, like mine. She was curvy in all the good places, where it mattered, and just tall enough to kiss without bending over.”

“Did she have a good ass?” Matsukawa interrupts, earning an scandalized snort from Kindaichi. Oikawa balks. Did she? He can’t remember. All he can remember is _Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, I fucking said Iwa-chan—_

“Yeah. Soft and perfect, just like mine.” Oikawa puts on a sly smile, punctuating the end of his sentence with a light _tut._ He tries to sound a bit whimsical, to distract himself from the anxiety in his heart.

“Honestly, I wish I could’ve seen more of her,” he lies, “but it all happened rather quickly. It was dark, and I had to keep her occupied, eh?” He rubs the back of his neck, runs his fingers along his collar. She left a tiny hickey there, he recalls, but he can’t feel any tender skin.

“Psh, sure. It was too dark, and your mind was somewhere else, eh?” Matsukawa jeers. Oikawa bristles, waiting for the impending question. Before Kindaichi had entered, he had only confided in Matsukawa that he had called out _someone’s_ name other than this girl’s. He hadn’t wanted to specify who, was ready to lie to protect himself, but couldn’t think of any reasonable names to list in Iwaizumi’s stead. He told the team about all the girls he laid, and exactly how he felt about them, so they could call his bluff pretty easily if he fucked it up.

Matsukawa smiles wryly, and Oikawa knits his brow at him. “Come on, Oikawa-san, who’s this other girl you’ve got running through your head? Is she a third-year? Is she pretty?”

“Matsu-senpai, honestly,” Kindaichi pipes up, voice a little strained. “Cut him some slack.”

Matsukawa’s gaze flickers over to his underclassman, then back to Oikawa, lashes fluttering. Clearly, he wasn’t about to cut his captain slack of any kind.

“Just give us a name, Captain, come on,” he entreats, cocking a thick brow.

Oikawa swallows, putting on a brave face. Every feminine name that ever existed flies out of his head in a beautifully choreographed act, leaving three syllables behind, three blazing syllables.

_Iwa-chan._

“I—” Oikawa feels himself deflating. Matsukawa’s expression shifts, and Kindaichi glances over heedfully at the two of them. Oikawa breathes in sharply, feeling his chest inflate. His lungs start to burn, so he lets out the breath in a long, low exhale, cheeks puffing out before he drops his head into his hands again.

“No, I… no, I don’t want to. It’s embarrassing,” he practically whines.

Kindaichi and Matsukawa exchange a look. “Will you tell us if we guess?” Matsukawa monotones.

Oikawa flinches. “Yeah, but, you’re not gonna—”

“Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa deadpans.

Oikawa’s mind shatters. His vision goes splotchy and his stomach does a weird dance routine. _Holy shit._

He must wait too long to respond, because Matsukawa throws his arms out wide, almost slapping Kindaichi, who was stone still with his shirt on only halfway and eyes wide like saucers.

“Iwaizumi!” the curly-haired spiker repeats with a puncuated " _ha!_ " of triumph. Oikawa almost chokes. _Let’s see, I can knock over Kindaichi no problem, knock out Matsu-chan, beeline for the door, run to the nearest airport and book a plane to Africa, start a new life—_

“Okay, _listen,_ ” Oikawa begins, rising from his seat and holding his arms up, talking with his hands as he weakly defends himself. “It was a _mistake,_ it was a random, one-time thing that has _never_ happened before, and it just so happened that it was _Iwa-chan_ that I… anyway, it doesn’t mean a thing, and you cannot—you _cannot,_ Kindai-chan,” he warns as Kindaichi opens his mouth, seeming to have had an epiphany. Oikawa points an accusatory finger in his direction.

“You cannot tell him about this. _Ever._ ”

Oikawa can feel himself trembling. He doesn’t want this to get out, and it scares him how hard he wants to hide it. What does it matter if Iwaizumi finds out? They’re friends, it shouldn’t change a thing between them, even though Iwa will never let him see the end of it. _Why do I care so much, why do I care that I made this silly mistake so much…_

“What’s keeping us?” Matsukawa’s tone is mischievous, face blank.

Oikawa’s blood pulses with fear. It runs hot down his abdomen and shakes him to his core. _Oh, you little bastard—_

He stills, the calm before a passive aggressive storm, feeling a bit of his old self return again. _I’m their captain,_ he reminds himself, _and I call the shots._

“What’s keeping you, Matsu-chan? Oh, I don’t know.” Oikawa brings his hand up to his chin, tapping it lightly with his index finger as if deep in thought. “I really don’t. Maybe your position on the team? The remainder of your days here? Away games? Championships? That could keep you from it, though what do I know, I’m just dumb and pretty Oikawa-senpai.”

“Okay, fine, we won’t,” Matsukawa says finally, slowly, and Kindaichi nods stiffly. Their expressions are still cautious, but Oikawa can see that they both want to laugh, at least a little bit, at _something_ that’s going over his head. _Laugh? What do they want to laugh at? What’s funny about this?_

“Honestly, though, Captain,” Matsukawa hums as he stands, gathering his things and slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “This isn’t all that surprising.”

Oikawa balks. “What?”

“I’m just saying, this is… a predictable offense.” Matsukawa fixes his captain with an odd look, somewhere between _please understand what I’m saying to you because I don’t want to say it outloud_ and _are you an idiot?_

Oikawa doesn’t think he’s an idiot, but he also doesn’t understand what the hell Matsukawa was trying to insinuate. “What… what do you mean?”

Matsukawa sighs, dropping his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. Kindaichi pipes up, unhelpfully. “Oikawa-senpai, forgive me, but isn’t it obvious? You’re g—”

The door creaks as it opens, and Oikawa’s entire body goes ramrod straight. The three boys stare at the figure in the threshold, framed by the hallway lights.

“Oi, what are you guys still doing here?” Iwaizumi growls, eyes burning like embers. “Go home, practice is over.”

Oikawa prays to whatever god is listening that his two kouhai will have mercy on his soul and leave without a word. Someone must have been listening, because all Matsukawa and Kindaichi do, thankfully, is exchange a glance and bite their lips as they snicker through their teeth.

Iwaizumi stares daggers at the two of them as they bow and say their goodnights, still laughing, before they leave. Oikawa watches them through the shielding of his bangs, taking a breath as his new company crosses the room towards him. His heart gets tight in his chest, and it’s all he can do not to clutch at it, to rid it of this claustrophobia.

“What the hell’s their problem?” Iwaizumi snarls, setting his bag down beside Oikawa and opening up his locker. “Jeez.”

“Oh, they’re just fools,” Oikawa breathes, pretending not to notice it when Iwaizumi tugs his shirt up over his strong bronze shoulders. His throat gets tight along with his chest. _Iwa-chan is strong,_ his mind _mutinies,_ and he pinches the inside of his elbow as self-punishment.

“What are you still doing here anyway, Trashykawa?” Iwaizumi asks, voice only a notch softer than before, but Oikawa notices. He always notices the way Iwaizumi talks to him, whether he’s angry or annoyed or yelling at him or whispering how he’s going to shiv Oikawa in his sleep.

“Ah, I was just talking with Matsu-chan about some sets. Kindai-chan came in to change. I’ll be headed home soon, too.” Oikawa feels like he’s running on autopilot again, just like with that girl. _Why do I want to tell him so badly?_

“Well, make sure you don’t stay up late again. The last thing we need is your dumb ass dropping dead asleep on the court.” Iwaizumi folds up his practice outfit neatly, setting it down into his bag before pulling out a clean cotton shirt. Oikawa’s eyes soak up his subtle movements, only staring when he’s sure that Iwaizumi isn’t looking.

“Thanks, Mom, I’ll keep that in mind,” Oikawa jests, chuckling and standing up. He feels crooked and awkward. Iwa fixes him with an intense stare, eyes like a killer, ready to murder.

“Cut that shit, Trashykawa,” he snaps, straightening up and slipping the shirt on. Oikawa glances at his feet, hooking his bag up over his shoulder.

“Kidding, Iwa-chan,” he giggles, fluttering his lashes a bit as he glances up towards Iwaizumi's face. “Thought maybe a joke would lighten up your mood—”

“That’s not what I meant, idiot.”

Silence looms over the two of them, and Iwaizumi has stopped moving. Oikawa keeps looking at his own feet, too afraid to open his mouth. _Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan, why’d I have to say Iwa-chan—_

“Spill it,” Iwaizumi interrupts Oikawa’s derailed train of thought. “What’s going on with you?”

Oikawa’s jaw clenches. _There’s nothing to spill, no beans here, move along._ “Nothing, Iwa-chan, everything’s fine,” he says, too quickly, too quietly. He smiles, and he imagines that it looks pretty pathetic. His throat is too tight, he can’t do this.

Iwaizumi slams his locker shut, crossing his arms over his chest as he turns to face his captain. He leans his back against the cool metal of the locker. _He looks like a jock,_ Oikawa muses.

“That’s bullshit," Iwaizumi barks. "What’s _wrong?_ You were out of it in practice, too.”

“Iwa-chan”—there it was, that fucking _name—_ ”I’m fine. Seriously, see?” Oikawa spreads his arms out wide, grin cheeky. “Not-a-thing out of place.”

“ _Oikawa._ ” Iwaizumi’s voice is gruff, impatient. Oikawa breathes out lazily, letting his arms drop to his sides and swing there, petulant like a child.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” he admits, reaching up to rub his shoulder. His fingers ruck into the jacket fabric, nails sharp. “I, ah, was with a girl yesterday.”

“Oh. Of course.” Iwaizumi’s arms drop as he pushes off the lockers, one hand coming to rest at his hip. Did Oikawa imagine a fleeting flash of pure fire behind his eyes, or the way his shoulders tensed up a minute fraction? He supposed he must have.

“Yeah, so, I was with her, and it was all good, but I…” What? _What did you do, you piece of trash? You’re really going to spill this to him right now?_ Oikawa swallows.

“I made a little mistake, haha.”

The forced laugh at the end of his words bounces right off of Iwaizumi’s unamused expression. “What did you do, asshole? D’you forget to wear a condom or something?”

Oikawa snorts comically. “Iwa-chan, please, you know me well enough at this point to know that I _never_ wear condoms. No, this was, ah, a little bit different than that.”

Iwaizumi is all ears without having to say so. Oikawa wants to die a legitimate death, complete with a funeral procession and white roses on his grave. He wants Kunimi to sing _Amazing Grace_ as they lower him into the ground. He wants Watari to cry while he delivers his eulogy. He wants to haunt Kageyama for the rest of the bastard setter’s natural life and probably when he was dead, too. He twists the hem of his jacket between his fingers.

“I, ah, you see, um… while we were together, I… I called the… wrong…” Oikawa’s voice trails off into the abyss, eyes falling down to the empty space between their bodies. The light dances on his vision, making him see weird colors.

“You did what?” Iwaizumi’s voice is sharp enough to cut him out of his daze.

“I called the wrong name. I didn’t call out her name.”

Oikawa will forever look back on this moment and remember a cricket chirping in the background of the silence that cloaked the pair. Iwaizumi’s eyes are unblinking, his gaze steady, for about five seconds, before he drops his head to his free hand and lets out a _beautiful_ guffaw.

Oikawa blinks in confusion, lips parting to say something, but all he can do is listen while Iwaizumi heaves in pleasure at hearing about his captain’s glorious fuck-up.

“O-oh my g-god, Oik-kawa, of course you did that!” Iwaizumi’s eyes are shut tight, and he has to catch himself on the lockers to keep from falling. “Of course you did, you… you did, oh my _god,_ you’re so hopeless!”

Indignance rises up in Oikawa’s chest. He didn’t care how cute Iwaizumi was when he was laughing, or that he called out his name during sex, he wasn’t about to let him laugh in his face. “H-hey now, Iwa-chan’s being so mean! It’s not that funny!”

“Like hell it isn’t! Good god, Oikawa.” Rubbing at his eyes with his index and middle finger, Iwaizumi lets out a breath, laughter still pulsing along his chest and splashing his cheeks with a darker caramel hue. _Good Christ, if nothing else, maybe Iwa-chan’s laugh can kill me,_ Oikawa muses.

“You know, I told you in the hopes that you would have some _sympathy_ for me,” Oikawa hisses, crossing his arms. Iwaizumi quirks an eyebrow at him, dangerous smile still intact.

“Sympathy? For _what?_ You made a mistake, albeit hilarious. That’s on you, Trashykawa. I don’t have sympathy for preppy boys who can’t tell their fuckbuddies apart from each other.” Pride wounded, Oikawa stares open mouthed as he watches Iwaizumi turn away from him, grabbing his jacket off the bench.

“Come on, get up,” Iwaizumi chirps, jarring Oikawa to move. “It’s time to go home.”

\--

Iwaizumi’s house is first on their walk, the conversation during which steers far from anything to do with sex or girls or name-calling, wrong or otherwise. Oikawa is grateful for this, and for the calmness that has washed over him since Iwaizumi had laughed at his blunder. Something about telling him, even without telling him _everything,_ had made it better, made it easier to process. Oikawa had come to realize that it didn’t matter if Iwaizumi knew or didn't know, they were friends, teammates, pals, and something silly like this wasn’t going to shake their foundation.

So it doesn’t matter. That’s what he decided on.

“I’m just saying, have you ever even _seen_ a U.F.O., Oikawa?”

“I _have,_ actually, when I was ten, it flew right over the school!”

“You’re full of it.”

“I am not, I’m speaking the truth!”

Iwaizumi tugs at Oikawa’s hair, a hand diving towards his ribs to karate chop him, and Oikawa yelps, ducking away and wheezing out tired laughter. Iwaizumi’s hands are warm, but Oikawa doesn’t need them making bruises in his skin.

He smirks. “One day, when we’re all being abducted, you’ll look me in the eye and say, ‘Oikawa-sama, you were right all along. You were right, and I, a lowly peasant, was wrong—’”

“I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass that you’ll be pulling my shoelaces out of your nose,” Iwaizumi monotones, fishing around in his bag for his water bottle and taking a drink as they walk.

They travel in relative silence for the next few minutes, rounding the last corner before they hit Iwaizumi’s block. Oikawa allows himself some fleeting glances in his kouhai’s direction. It wasn’t until earlier today that he really began to notice all the things that he already loved about Iwaizumi. It wasn’t just his looks, although he was objectively handsome. Even with his criminal-looking eyes, the many scars that nicked at his skin all over from getting into fights, breaking up fights, and wailing on Oikawa, he was still rather beautiful to look at. Oikawa always liked to think that he got that from his mother, a stunning woman from Tamil Nadu, India, from which Iwaizumi had inherited his skin, his eyes, his hair, and his fiery temper.

No, it felt like now there was something more to it. Something deeper that Oikawa hadn’t had a mind to look for until his mind was so on edge that he couldn’t stop seeing it. It was mapped in the smile lines around Iwaizumi’s eyes, plotted in the creases of his skin as he clenched his fists, adrenaline pumping all through his body. It lay hidden in the quickness of his step, the precision of his focus, and the way he could spread his wildfire energy to anyone just by being around them. It was a mystery to be unravelled in his angry tears after a loss, the sweat that dripped from his jaw during rough practices, in his sarcasm, in his earnest words, in his heartbeat.

Oikawa supposed that, even if he didn’t have a crush on Iwaizumi, he was very much in love with Iwaizumi’s soul.

“So, you gonna let that girl go?”

Iwaizumi’s voice scares away Oikawa’s daydream, his eyes soft even as his jaw tightens. He seems so touchy whenever Oikawa mentions girls, presumably because he’s never been good with them himself.

Oikawa starts for a moment, but relaxes quickly. “Of course. I can’t let one little indiscretion ruin my reputation. There’s still an awful lot of ladies out there.”

Iwaizumi snorts, “They’d do best to avoid you, then.” Oikawa pouts.

They stop outside Iwaizumi’s front gate. The sun is only barely peeking out over the horizon, casting long shadows on the sidewalk and road that dance as the wind picks up and rustles the trees and air around them.

“Well, good that you’ve decided to let it go. Go home and sleep, Trashykawa. We need a captain tomorrow, not a loafer.” Iwaizumi turns to go.

Something inside Oikawa shudders. His heart jumps at the thought of leaving like this. Iwaizumi deserves to know. _No, he doesn’t need to know, it doesn’t matter!_ But he does, he has to, it’s only fair.

Oikawa’s legs are weak, his chest hurts, and he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Something’s not right. He can’t _not_ say anything. He stares after Iwaizumi. Watches his shoulders shift as he walks.

 _It doesn’t matter._ Oikawa knows this, so why does he take those few strides to catch up to his kouhai, why does he reach out, why does he grab onto Iwaizumi’s hand and yank on him, iron grip assurance enough that he’s not going to let go any time soon? Why does he pause for a breath, why does his tongue stumble awkwardly over the words he says, why is his face so _hot?_

“It was you,” Oikawa blurts. Iwaizumi blinks, puzzled.

“What?”

“Your name. That I called out. It was you, Iwa-chan.” _Please strangle the life out of me, Iwa-chan, I’m running out of options._

In the end, the silence is what really kills Oikawa. He can feel his soul leaving his body under Iwaizumi’s confused, irritated, practically scandalized gaze. _Why did I say that,_ Oikawa berates himself, _why the fuck did I say that?_

He lets go of Iwaizumi’s wrist, withdrawing his hand to the safety of his chest. There were words to say here, but he couldn’t catch any of them in the blaze of glory that was his brain dousing itself in gasoline and lighting a match.

“Of course!” he finally forces himself to say, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. His movements are uncoordinated, jerky. His face feels hot, his hands clammy, his collar wet with sweat. “Of course, that, ah, it was just a silly mistake! You know, just a random interjection! I was thinking about volleyball, and naturally thought of how much of a pest you can be, so—”

Oikawa rambles on, letting his tongue sin on his behalf, while his vision glazes over and he retreats into his mind. He barely notices when Iwaizumi relaxes, fixing him with a stare that was neither cold nor judgmental.

“Oikawa,” he murmurs, but Oikawa doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He’ll start crying if he stops.

“Anyway, it’s not like I like you or anything! It was just a stupid thing I said. But you’re right, it’s good to let her go! She obviously wasn’t on my mind even when I was inside her, so—”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi tries again, tone flat and hard like his calloused palm when it slaps across his captain’s face.

“And you’re just my annoying little Iwa-chan, anyway, and since I’ve got to keep an eye on you all the time, it’s natural that you’d cross my mind every now and again—”

Iwaizumi is less than two centimeters from him in an instant, a flash of color and light and energy that Oikawa couldn’t see even though he was looking right through him. He feels a pressure at his bicep, feels nails left jagged from nervous biting dig into his skin even from underneath the fabric of his jacket. He feels Iwaizumi’s breath on his nose, his chin, his lips, feels the intensity of his gaze on Oikawa’s, feels his heart skip a beat as he looks Iwaizumi dead in the eye.

“Please, Oikawa, for the love of God, _vayai muṭu,_ ” Iwaizumi orders calmly as he presses his mouth to Oikawa’s.

His brain, still burning from being set alight not moments ago by its own shit self, melts right there in his cranium. He is acutely aware of Iwaizumi’s hand finding its way to his other arm, keeping him locked in place, aware of his looming warmth, his mouth _on Oikawa’s,_ the salty smell of his dark skin and the taste of his lips.

At the same time, he is aware of nothing at all, because he can’t, he can’t be doing this, it can’t be happening, it _cannot be happening._ His eyes must close, because everything goes dark, and the tension in his chest that had built up since that morning finally spreads out across his whole body and dissipates, like a flower blooming and spreading its pollen before returning to the ground. He chokes, and the warmth on his mouth, the gentle presence of his friend—no, something more now, but what?—disappears.

Oikawa doesn’t dare open his eyes, because he can feel the tears behind them already and he knows that releasing the floodgates is a Bad Move™. He feels Iwaizumi let go of his shoulder, and nearly a second later, feels his thumb caress his cheek.

“Oikawa, are you crying?”

The tears stream down as Oikawa’s eyelids flutter open. He takes in a shaky breath, biting his lip. He can’t do this, he can’t handle this emotion in his body, he can’t take all of this in at once. Did he like Iwaizumi? Why did he call out his name? Why did Iwaizumi kiss him? Where was the nearest cliff to throw himself off of?

Iwaizumi looks the most worried that Oikawa has ever seen him in his life. He doesn’t blame him: if Oikawa saw himself crying, he’d be petrified.

“Why?” His voice is little more than a vibration in the largeness of the world, and it’s hard for him to speak. “Why?”

Iwaizumi baffles Oikawa yet again by smirking. “Because they can never care about you like I do. They can never see you at your worst or at your best because they aren’t connected to you like I am. They don’t share common ground with you like I do. They don’t play or fight or argue like you and I do.” He stops, looking down at the ground and letting out a breath that he must have been holding in for a little while.

“And that’s why you called my name, Oikawa. Because you know that deep down, don’t you? You’ve known that all along.”

Oikawa nods, because of course he knew it. Of course. _It didn’t matter,_ he remembers. Only it did matter. It mattered to him and it mattered to Iwaizumi, and now it mattered to _both of them._ Whatever that meant now.

“That, and,” Iwaizumi adds, taking Oikawa’s face in both his hands, “you’re a trashy slut.”

Oikawa lets out a breathless laugh, smile splitting his face. His hand rises to touch Iwaizumi’s, to relish this. It felt right, whatever it was, and he didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

“Iwa-chan, please, we have limited time here. If you insist on calling me a slut, please use my preferred name.”

Iwaizumi chokes this time. “No, I said that _once_ as a joke. I’m not saying that name ever again.”

Oikawa grins, mischief returning. “You have to, or I won’t kiss you again.”

“Then fuck it, you’re going home right now, Shittykawa.” Iwaizumi drops his hands.

“Iwa-chaaaaaaan—”

“No.”

“I’ll tell the team about your bug collection.”

“Oh my god, fine,” Iwaizumi buckles under the pressure, cheeks hot red. “P-Pastel Alien Fuckboy.”

Oikawa claps his hands together gleefully, wrapping his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck and kissing him again. It’s better than before; where Oikawa’s lips had been stiff and immobile, now they were pliant against Iwaizumi’s, and they locked together perfectly. They stay still like that for a while, until they both start to get out of breath.

Iwaizumi touches at his lips as he pulls away, fleetingly, before fixing his bag up again. “Goodnight, Oikawa,” he says simply, smile faint, as he turns and strides up his walkway.

Oikawa watches him disappear safely into his home, before turning down the path with a gentle sigh carried away by the breeze.

“Iwa-chan~” he sings quietly to himself, hopping over a puddle on the sidewalk. He can’t believe it, still, even after Iwaizumi has proven that it’s real. Whatever it is, it doesn’t really matter. Because Oikawa isn’t gay or bi or anything. He’s in love, and that’s what matters the most.

**Author's Note:**

> then Iwaizumi had Oikawa over for dinner and his mom served food spicy enough to melt stone. Oikawa was never heard from again
> 
> note: "vayai muṭu" is Tamil for "shut your mouth". credit for translation goes to my partner in crime, who pioneers half indian iwa like the world is ending


End file.
